


Reach Out and Touch Faith

by 1863



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe
Genre: Barebacking, Character study through porn, Extra Treat, M/M, Scar Worship, Switching, Window Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-11 17:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18428639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: Tensions reach their breaking point, in more ways than one.





	Reach Out and Touch Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liodain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liodain/gifts).



> The title is from Depeche Mode's _Personal Jesus_.

Bruce isn’t surprised to find Clark waiting for him in the cave, but that doesn’t make him any less pissed off about it, either. 

“Stalking me now, Clark?” he asks, slamming the car door shut with more force than necessary. Petty, yes, but it's been a long night, a League mission that went south followed by several hours on patrol and he’s too fucking tired to deal with this right now. “That’s not very Superman of you.”

Clark crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t run off earlier.” 

Bruce walks right past him and doesn’t spare him a second glance.

“Getting lectured by a boy scout isn’t exactly high on my list of favourite activities.” 

Bruce heads for the stairs but Clark suddenly disappears, superspeeding away before reappearing directly in Bruce's path. Bruce has to stumble back to keep from running right into him.

“Get out of my way, Clark.” 

Bruce’s voice is very quiet. It’s the voice he uses when he’s on patrol, the voice that makes the average Gotham lowlife second-guess themselves and wonder if maybe the stories were true — that the Bat wasn’t just a man, or even a superpowered man; it was the voice that made them wonder if they’d found themselves face to face with some kind of demon. 

Something flickers in Clark’s eyes before that goddamn stubbornness takes over again. 

“Not until you tell me why took that stupid risk on the mission today.”

Bruce smiles. His split lip re-opens, staining his teeth, and Clark actually flinches at the sight of his bloody grin. 

“What’s the matter, Clark? A little blood make you uncomfortable?” Clark’s eyes harden and Bruce's smile widens. Good, Bruce thinks. This he can deal with. “It’s not like you haven’t given me worse. Now get out of the way and get the fuck out of my house.” 

He shoves past Clark and heads upstairs, taking two and three at a time, ignoring the pain in his hip where some asshole had landed a well-aimed kick. The house is silent — Alfred is away for the night, probably having decided to make himself scarce after letting Clark into the cave, and all Bruce wants to do is shower and collapse into bed for a few hours. He starts stripping off the batsuit as soon as he’s in his bedroom. Normally he’d have gotten changed in the cave but there was no fucking way he was staying down there while Clark shot him disapproving glares. Being civil — friendly, even — while the rest of the team were around was one thing; putting up with this boy scout bullshit in his own goddamn house was another. 

Bruce is down to his underwear when he realises that he’s no longer alone. He can only blame his tiredness for not noticing sooner.

“For god’s sake, Clark.” Bruce throws his undershirt into a corner and glares at him in the doorway. “What part of ‘get the fuck out’ did you not understand?”

But Clark just looks more determined than ever, stalking into the room without an invitation, just doing whatever the fuck he wanted to do because right now he's not Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter — right now he's Superman, and Superman didn't need permission to do anything. 

“Why did you go after him on your own?” 

“I don’t have to justify my actions to you —”

“You do when your actions could get you killed!” Clark rarely raised his voice but there’s enough force in it now that it actually rattles the furniture. With visible effort, he reins it in. “If you would just listen —”

“To you?” Bruce steps closer. He's almost naked, no suit, no cowl, but Bruce sees Clark tense, knows that Clark is looking at him and seeing Batman stalking towards him and not fragile, weak — _human_ — Bruce Wayne. “I’ve been at this for more than twenty fucking _years_ , Clark. I don’t need your approval, or your permission. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Clark stands firm, not backing up even a step as Bruce gets closer and closer. “Looks to me like all you know how to do is run away.” 

“Run away?” Bruce stops when he’s within arm’s reach. “You said it yourself, Clark. I went _after_ the guy, I didn’t run away.”

“Maybe not from him, no.” Clark’s eyes are hard, but there’s something bright about them too, bright and hot and — angry, Bruce realises. Clark was truly, genuinely angry with him. “But from everything else? That’s all you ever fucking do.”

“Oh, swearing now, too?” Bruce grins. “Playing at being human doesn't really work when you're in costume.”

He starts to turn away but Clark grabs his wrist, not hard enough to hurt but tight enough that Bruce can’t pull away. Annoyance turns to anger and anger starts turning into something else, something he usually keeps so viciously sealed away that Bruce can actually _feel_ his self-control starting to crack, muscles tensing and heart rate doubling as he contemplates whether it’s worth a dislocated shoulder to yank himself free. It’s too late for this; he’s too tired for this. He’s too fucking _old_ for this. 

“Let go of me, Clark.” The grin is gone and he can hear his voice shaking with things he can barely suppress. 

“No.”

Bruce decides the dislocated shoulder is worth it and tries to walk away but Clark was ready for it — he lets Bruce finish the motion before he pulls Bruce back, a hard firm tug that should have made Bruce stumble into him — but Bruce had been ready too. He’d known there was no way Clark would let him hurt himself. Bruce uses the momentum of the tug to take Clark by surprise, pushing off the ground and ramming his shoulder right at Clark’s chest. They crash into a table, knocking it over as drawers fall open and spill out all over the floor, but Bruce doesn’t care, just keeps pushing and shoving until Clark's back hits the window with a loud hard thud. At the back of his mind he knows that Clark had allowed it, that if he really wanted to stop Bruce all he had to do was stand still. And then no amount of momentum or preparedness or clever tricks would matter at all, because Clark was absolutely immoveable when he wanted to be. 

“What are you going to do, Bruce?” Clark smiles, an edge of mockery in his voice. “Hit me? Good luck Batmanning with a broken hand.” 

“Right now, I’m thinking it might be worth it.” 

Clark’s eyes flash with anger. 

“No, you’re not. You’re not thinking that.”

“How would you know what I think?” Bruce leans closer. “You think you _know_ me, Clark? You think because we’re on a team that means we’re friends?” Bruce shoves him against the glass again, hard enough that the whole wall of windows, floor to ceiling and corner to corner, shakes with the force of it. “You don’t know _anything_ about me, Clark. Or what I’m capable of.” 

“I know you weren’t always like this.”

“Like _what_ ,” Bruce snaps.

“Hard. Brutal. Angry.” Clark looks him right in the eye, unflinching and unafraid, because why would he be? There was nothing Bruce could do to him and they both knew it. Clark licks his lips. “You wouldn’t have taken on a Robin—”

Bruce’s fist is flying before he’s even aware of what he’s doing but Clark is even faster — he’s out of Bruce’s grip in less than a blink of an eye, fingers tight around Bruce’s wrist to stop him from smashing his fist into the glass now that Clark’s no longer leaning against it. 

Bruce closes his eyes and forces himself to stay still despite the white-hot rage in his veins. On some level he knows his anger is misdirected but Clark is still the most convenient target, and Bruce is so fucking _tired_ , of Clark and his disappointed frowns and unearned trust and unwavering belief that people were worth saving — always, everyone, even Bruce. 

He opens his eyes and catches Clark by surprise — Clark's gaze snaps up quickly, but not before Bruce saw him looking... elsewhere. 

“Well, well, well,” Bruce says, keeping his voice low. The faintest hint of pink flushes Clark’s cheeks and Bruce smiles again, but not like before — this is sharper, knowing, and Clark's jaw tightens when he sees it. Bruce drops his head a little and looks at Clark through his eyelashes. “Is this what it’s really about, Clark? You could’ve just asked.”

Clark lets go of his wrist. “What are you talking about?”

Bruce spreads his arms. “Go ahead and look, Clark.” He does a slow turn and can almost feel Clark’s eyes on him, gaze running up and down his back, his arms and legs, his shoulders and chest. His cock twitches but Bruce doesn’t even care anymore; Clark could probably smell it on him anyway. And when they’re face to face again Bruce sees the growing evidence of something he’d always suspected and always purposely ignored, because he knew that nothing would ever come of it — not with Clark, and definitely not with Superman. Until now, that is. 

Bruce might be the one in nothing but his underwear but the full Superman suit was just as useless to Clark in hiding it. He watches Clark swallow and smiles again, knowing he's somehow ended up with the upper hand after all. 

“I’ve seen you looking before,” Bruce adds, pressing his advantage. “You think you look away fast enough, you think I don’t notice. But I notice everything.” He steps closer, crowds Clark against the window. “Is looking all you’re going to do, Clark?” 

Clark takes a deep breath. He flushes a deeper shade of pink but when his eyes meet Bruce’s they’re as determined as ever. 

“Why did you go after him alone?”

Bruce grins and ignores the question completely. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to do more than look?”

Something flares his Clark’s eyes; it could be anger, it could be lust, more likely it was both. 

“I’m not the one who’s afraid, Bruce.” His head suddenly darts forward, far enough that their lips would have met if Bruce hadn’t instinctively jerked his own head back. Clark smiles with humourless satisfaction. “Like I said,” he adds. “Always running away.”

“How’s this for running away?” Bruce asks, and starts palming Clark’s cock through the suit. 

The back of Clark’s head hits the window as he gasps in surprise. 

“Bruce —”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Bruce steps even closer, nosing at Clark's neck, breathing in the scent of him, the heat. “Or did you want even more?” He feels Clark’s cock twitch against his hand and smiles again. “More it is, then.”

He manages to give Clark’s cock another rough stroke before Clark suddenly pushes him away. Bruce laughs a little, watching Clark take several deep breaths — as though he actually needed them, as though breathing wasn't just another one of dozens of affectations he took up to hide what he really was.

“What’s the matter, Clark? The real thing a little too much to bear?” Bruce’s eyes are hard. “Or a little too disappointing?” 

Clark looks him in the eye, gaze as steady as his breathing is uneven. 

“ _Is_ this the real thing, Bruce? Because I don’t think it is.” He shakes his head. “Seems like just another mask to me.”

“I’m not the one in costume.” 

“Yeah,” Clark agrees, watching him with a strange expression on his face. “Superman is my mask. Just like Batman is yours.”

“Batman’s not the mask, Clark.”

Clark laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. 

“I know that’s what you want me to believe. Maybe what you want to believe too. But that’s bullshit, Bruce.” Clark runs his gaze all over him again, lingering on the many, many scars that litter his whole body — from old faded scratches he’d gotten as a boy to ugly, twisted cords of tissue from wounds that nearly killed him. “You want me to believe you’re not afraid? You want me to believe that _this_ is the mask?”

Clark strips off the Superman suit. It doesn’t take long, and in less than a minute he’s standing naked in Bruce’s bedroom — naked and hard and unapologetic about both.

“Tell me to leave again, Bruce.” He takes another deep breath, and if it’s a sign of nerves the look in his eyes is as unwavering as ever. “Walk away without touching me.” 

And Bruce — Bruce does try. He looks away, curls his hands into fists, wills his pulse to slow down to normal levels. But Clark is so _close_ , so close Bruce can smell him, so close that Bruce can feel his body heat; Clark is close and hard and willing, _offering_ even — and offering it all to Bruce, of all people. Has been for a while, considering how often Bruce caught Clark looking at him with something hungry in those dangerously pretty eyes.

Bruce meets his gaze again and steps forward, into Clark’s personal space.

“No.”

Clark licks his lips. “No?”

“ _No_.” 

And Bruce grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around before shoving him face-first against the window. Clark manages to stop himself from crashing into the glass, superspeed allowing him to brace both hands against it just in time. 

Bruce presses himself against Clark’s back and smiles when he feels Clark shiver. 

He slips his hands around Clark’s torso as he leans in, one palm coming up to rest against Clark’s chest and the other against his stomach, breathing hotly against the side of Clark’s neck.

“Is this what you wanted?” Bruce whispers into Clark’s skin. “Every time you looked?” 

His fingers find a nipple and Clark gasps, back arching into the touch. It makes his bare ass rub against Bruce’s cock and Bruce tugs him closer, rocking his hips until Clark is panting is his arms. 

Bruce lets the hand on Clark’s stomach drift lower, sliding slowly into the hair at his groin. He can see their reflections in the windows, the low light effectively turning them into mirrors, and Bruce can see how tense Clark’s face is, can feel how taut his muscles are as Bruce’s hand keeps inching closer and closer to his cock. 

“Answer me, Clark.” Bruce shifts his hips, erection finding the cleft of Clark’s ass and he watches Clark’s face in the window as it twists with need. He gives Clark’s nipple another hard pinch and Clark’s jaw drops as he shudders against Bruce’s chest.

“Yes,” Clark pants. He licks his lips again and meets Bruce’s eyes in the window. “And before.” 

“Before?”

Bruce takes hold of Clark’s cock and Clark tilts his head back against Bruce’s shoulder, not breaking eye contact. 

“When we fought,” he says, chest heaving as Bruce’s hand starts moving over his cock. “Before Doomsday. You were — I’d never —”

Bruce tightens his grip and Clark has to shut his eyes, moaning as he thrusts into Bruce’s fist. 

“Keep going,” Bruce insists. He licks at Clark’s neck, nibbles on his earlobe, and Clark makes a strangled sort of noise, head tipping forward to give Bruce better access.

“I’d never been — overpowered, before,” Clark says roughly. “By a human. You were — I thought about —”

Bruce thrusts his hips against Clark’s ass again and Clark cuts off with another moan.

“This?” Bruce asks. “Me inside you?” He licks at the back of Clark’s neck, tasting what must be Kryptonian sweat — salt and musk and something faintly metallic, too. It makes his mouth water, makes him wonder what other parts of Clark might taste like, what they might feel like against his tongue. “Or you inside me?” 

“Both,” Clark whispers, closing his eyes as his face flushes with heat. “Either. Any, I don’t care, just —” He cuts off when Bruce starts stroking faster, long smooth pulls that make Clark gasp. Bruce can feel the tremor in his back where it’s pressed hard against his chest. 

“Say it,” Bruce insists. “I want you to look at me and say it.”

Clark opens his eyes. Bruce sees open lust there but something else too, something he doesn’t understand — something darker and wilder and more intense than even this, and it makes Bruce remember that as similar as they may look, as familiar as it is to have a body in his arms responding to his touch, Clark is still absolutely _alien_ , and Bruce is in no less danger now than he ever is when Clark looks at him with heat in his eyes. That this heat is from desire rather than anger makes no difference. 

“I want,” Clark says slowly, clearly, eyes boring into his, “I want you to fuck me, Bruce.” He takes a breath. “With nothing in between.” 

The words hit Bruce like the blows he took during the mission earlier, knocking the air out of his lungs even as his cock gets impossibly harder. His mind brings up the potential dangers as quickly as it dismisses them — as volatile as things between them could be Clark wouldn’t suggest anything that could hurt him, Bruce is certain of that. Still, he knows it isn’t entirely safe — but then, nothing about any of this is safe. And not just physically, some small part of him thinks, but he shoves that thought away in favour of giving Clark’s cock one last rough stroke before he takes a step backwards.

He takes another step to the side, watching Clark watch him in the window as he pulls his underwear off. Clark licks his lips when Bruce is finally naked, gaze raking over Bruce’s body like he wants to devour him alive. It’s not much different to how he’d looked when he lifted Bruce up by the throat and threw him into a parked car and the thought makes Bruce even harder. 

There's a convenient tube of lube on the floor — probably from the broken table — and he gets himself slicked up quickly. He strokes himself lightly, and very briefly — he’s painfully hard already and knows he won’t last long. But Clark’s eyes darken immediately, fingers twitching a little against the glass like he’s forcing himself to stay still. 

Bruce steps up behind him again. He slowly trails a fingertip down Clark’s back, from the nape of his neck and down along his spine and then even further down than that, slipping into the cleft of his ass until Bruce finds what he was looking for. He doesn’t press in, not yet, just rubs and teases until Clark is pushing back against his hand, sucking in breaths like he’s been hit with a blast of kryptonite. Bruce reaches around him with his free hand and grabs his cock and Clark squeezes his eyes shut, looking almost like he’s in pain.

“ _Bruce,_ ” he chokes out. “Would you just — oh, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, when Bruce suddenly pushes in. Clark pushes back against him and his greed for more makes Bruce groan. Clark is so tight around his finger, so tight and _hot_ , that the prospect of feeling that bearing down on his cock makes Bruce gasp, the mere thought alone almost enough to make him come.

Clark sees his reaction in the window and smiles, even as he moans when Bruce pushes a second finger in. 

“I can make it good for you, Bruce,” Clark says, voice low and rough and breathless. “I’ve thought about it often enough. I _know_ I can make it good.”

And Clark’s eyes are so full of heat, his voice so thick with need, that the last of Bruce’s self-control turns to ash under the force of it. He pulls his fingers out and grabs Clark by the hips, then lines himself up and pushes in with one long, slow thrust. 

“Bruce, fuck —” Clark moans, eyes falling shut as Bruce fills him up. “Yes, _more —_ ”

“Clark —” Bruce gasps, panting hard and fingers digging into Clark’s hips as he desperately tries not to come at once. Clark around his fingers was nothing, _nothing_ like Clark around his cock, a searing heat and tight pressure that’s so _good_ , so good it’s actually painful, so good Bruce knows he’ll never be able to get past this — he'll never be able to look at Clark again and not remember what it was like to be buried deep inside him. Then Clark clenches around him and Bruce whimpers, actually _whimpers_ , pressing his forehead against the back of Clark’s neck as his hips start moving on pure instinct, thrusting into the perfect heat of Clark’s perfect, willing body. 

But Clark is just as far gone, fingers scrabbling at the window as Bruce fucks him hard against it, as Bruce pulls out almost all the way before slamming back in again, over and over, harder and harder, so hard that Bruce would be leaving bruises and drawing blood if it was anyone other than Clark pressed against him. And Clark just takes it, _welcomes_ it, meeting him thrust for thrust, moaning his name and gasping obscenities that Bruce never thought he’d hear coming out of that sweet farmboy mouth. 

“Look at me,” Bruce whispers into his ear, one hand pumping Clark’s cock in time with his thrusts and the other tangled tight in Clark’s soft, dark hair. “Look at _us_. Look at what we’re doing.”

With effort Clark lifts his head and their eyes meet in the window again. Clark’s whole body is flushed, chest heaving, arms shaking as he holds himself up against the force of Bruce pounding into him, again and again and again. His lips are parted, hair in disarray, cock hard and leaking in Bruce’s tight fist. Compared to how he normally looked, unassuming in his neat plaid button-downs or radiating pure power in the Superman suit, right now he looks utterly _obscene_ , a pornographic fantasy ripped straight from some dark corner of Bruce’s labyrinthine mind. 

“Is this how you imagined it,” Bruce asks, unable to stop himself. “Hard,” he gasps, slamming in again, “and rough?” He lets go of Clark’s cock and his hair, gripping his hips instead to get better leverage as the tension in him spins inexorably out of control. “Did you want to see my scars?” He suddenly slows down, so slow that he and Clark both cry out, shuddering hard against each other. Clark eyes are still on him, still watching his every move in the window, and Bruce can’t stop the words that fall from his lips, escaping from hidden places, ugly and unfiltered and raw. “See every mark — _god_ ,” he moans, speeding up again, “— of every failure on this fragile —” another thrust, “human —” and another, “—body?” 

His last words are punctuated by thrusts so brutal that Clark doesn't even respond, head bowing against the force of Bruce pounding into him. The sight of their reflections makes Bruce groan and he knows he's seconds away from coming. And then Clark lifts his head again, a sudden smile spreading across his face, like he knows exactly how close Bruce is to losing it — and something flashes in those bright blue eyes that makes Bruce’s gut clench in apprehension. And then — 

Clark suddenly tightens around him, hard and _deliberate_ and shockingly strong — so strong that Bruce comes in an instant, his orgasm forcibly ripped right out of him. He cries out again, helpless to stop it, shuddering against Clark’s back, hands tight around Clark’s hips as he comes and comes, spilling into Clark’s body and panting hard against the back of his neck. It’s harsh and violent and unbearably, excruciatingly good, and the thought of what Clark was capable of, of how much control he must have over his own body, just makes Bruce come even harder. 

He tries to get his breath back when he’s finally spent, gasping a little as he pulls out. But as soon he takes a step backwards Clark moves faster than he’s able to see and the next thing Bruce knows, his back is against the window and Clark’s hands are on his chest, keeping him firmly in place. 

“Clark,” Bruce starts, but finds he has no idea what to say. 

He can feel his heart beating against Clark’s palms, a rapid thud that he knows Clark can hear as clearly as Bruce's voice saying his name. Bruce is still panting, the violence of his orgasm still stealing his breath, and staring at Clark now, at the intense expression in his eyes and the clear implied threat in his hands over Bruce’s heart, Bruce knows he’s short of breath for another reason, too. 

“You’re afraid of me,” Clark says suddenly. “Even now, you’re afraid of me.” He shakes his head a little, disbelieving despite the fact that he’s got Bruce pressed against the window like a moth pinned to a board. “Me,” he repeats. “Not Superman. _Me_.” 

Bruce says nothing, but his racing pulse is answer enough. Clark stares at him for a moment, the expression on his face entirely unreadable before he slowly, slowly leans in. Bruce stays still but just before their mouths collide Clark ducks his head, and it takes far longer than it should for Bruce to understand what Clark is actually doing: he’s kissing every scar he can find, systematically brushing his lips over the multitude of marks scattered all over Bruce's skin — carved into his chest and shoulders, etched into his hands and arms. 

“Don’t,” Bruce says. His voice is unexpectedly rough and it ends up sounding more like a question than an order. 

“Yes.” 

The word is breathed into one of Bruce’s biggest, ugliest scars, the one that rips across his shoulder and down over his chest. Serrated blades, Bruce remembers, made of some alloy the batsuit hadn’t been able to deflect yet. He'd gotten more than one scar that night, cold metal repeatedly piercing his skin and slicing his flesh, barely missing several vital organs, and Bruce still remembers how white Alfred’s face had been when he finally came to — white as a sheet, white as a ghost, staring at Bruce like — like _he_ was the ghost.

“You see these as marks of failure,” Clark says, lips finding another scar, near his nipple this time — a faded pink stripe from an old fight Bruce no longer remembers the details of. Bruce gasps a little when Clark’s tongue licks over it, flicking over his nipple too. “You see failure,” Clark repeats. “But I see survival.”

He moves down Bruce’s torso, hands trailing down as he goes, the soft press of his lips and the careful flicks of his tongue keeping Bruce in place as effectively as the hands on his chest did before. Those hands are at Bruce’s waist now, and Bruce closes his eyes when Clark gets down on his knees, finding more and more marks to bless with brutally gentle kisses. 

Clark mouths along another long scar, one that follows the curve of his hipbone, and Bruce’s breath hitches when his mouth finds the one that creeps up his inner thigh, the one he got when Robin —

“ _Clark._ ” 

The word comes out like a plea and Clark stills, lips still grazing Bruce’s damaged skin. 

“You see weakness,” Clark says softly. “I see strength.”

“Not enough." The words scrape painfully over Bruce's throat, bone-dry and squeezed tight with things long-buried. “Never enough.”

Clark stands. He waits until Bruce meets his eyes before he speaks again. 

“Maybe not on your own,” he says. “But you’re not on your own. Not anymore.” He seems to hesitate, then adds, “Maybe you never were.”

Bruce tries to look away but Clark grabs his jaw and forces him to maintain eye contact. His grip isn't painful but it certainly isn’t gentle, either, and neither is the look in his eyes as he stares Bruce down.

“You’re afraid of me because you look at me and you see what I could do,” Clark says. 

“You could snap me in half like a twig, Clark.”

“I could,” he agrees. “But I won’t. I _wouldn’t_.” Something flashes in his eyes again, something almost like desperation, or despair. “Why can't you look at me and just see what I'm doing now, instead of what I _could_ do?”

Bruce swallows. 

“And what are you doing right now, Clark?”

“This.”

For a split second he's gone in a sudden gust of wind, but before Bruce even registers what's happening Clark is lifting him up by the waist like he weighs nothing at all, holding him up against the window as he presses a finger into him. 

“Fuck,” Bruce gasps, unprepared but not — not unwilling. Clark's finger is wet with lube and Bruce moans a little at the thought of how fast Clark must have moved to get his hand slicked up without Bruce even seeing it. He instinctively wraps his legs around Clark's waist and Clark hoists him up even higher; it makes his stomach brush over Bruce's oversensitive cock and Bruce gasps again, pleasure-pain shooting through him, not knowing whether he wants more or less of it. Clark pushes another finger in, staring at him like he's the only thing left in the entire world. 

Then Clark adds another finger, and all three curl and hit Bruce in just the right spot, and against his will Bruce shudders hard before going boneless against the glass, Clark's superhuman strength the only thing keeping him upright. 

“No,” Bruce tries to say, but the word dissolves into a moan as his head tips back and his hips push forward, trying to get more. Because he does and he doesn't want it; he wants Clark inside him but not — not like this. Bruce wants to be taken like he took Clark, a hard brutal fucking, just another fight like the ones they’ve had before but with the contexts flipped around. Not like this, this slow and careful undoing, this measured application of — not force, Bruce realises with a moan, as Clark replaces his fingers with his cock and Bruce can do nothing but close his eyes and take him in. This is something far worse, a controlled execution of something that hits more deeply than a physical blow ever could. 

But Clark is relentless, single-minded in his attack. He fucks Bruce agonisingly slowly, hitting his prostate with merciless accuracy, until Bruce is shaking in Clark's arms, hands clutching his shoulders like he's a lifeline. Clark's face is flushed, with concentration as much as pleasure, and Bruce tries to turn away from the intensity in those damned blue eyes but Clark refuses to give him that, too — one hand comes up and cups the back of Bruce's head, fingers tangling in his hair and holding him in place, forcing Bruce to look him in the eye. 

“I thought about it like this too,” Clark rasps, his voice so deep and rough that Bruce can practically feel it, dragging over his skin and sinking into his bones. “Nothing,” Clark adds, briefly closing his eyes when Bruce clenches around him, “ _nothing_ in between.”

Clark leans forward but stops when Bruce wrenches his head free, turning away and saving himself from that one last intimacy despite knowing full well that Clark could take that by force as well. But Clark doesn't, and Bruce _knew_ he wouldn't, and it's that irrefutable truth that makes Bruce look back at Clark's face, where he sees a look in Clark's eyes that's far, far too understanding, too accepting by half. 

“Nothing in between,” Clark repeats, voice barely audible, when Bruce meets his eyes again. He emphasises his words with another torturously slow thrust, and this time — this time Bruce doesn't look away, even though Clark is no longer holding his head still. He just stares back, and he doesn't know what he's seeing in Clark's eyes but he hopes whatever Clark can see in _his_ is something less open, less exposed, less — weak, he thinks, but knows at once that that's a lie. Clark is staring at him just like he's fucking him — raw, bare, direct, the look in his eyes so clear it's impossible to misunderstand what he means. 

This is the opposite of weakness, and they both know it. 

And Clark must see it, see the understanding in the depths of Bruce's eyes, because he makes a choked sort of noise and slams Bruce against the window, and whatever control he showed before cracks wide open as he starts fucking Bruce for real. Not as hard as he could, nowhere near that hard, but hard enough that Bruce can do nothing but take it, the rest of the world obliterated by the feeling of Clark moving inside him, Clark's arms around his waist, Clark's unrelenting gaze staring right into him. It's almost too much for Bruce to process, tension building in him again even though he's already come, but Clark feels unbearably good inside him, like satisfying a craving he hadn't even known he'd had, and Bruce wishes he could be hard again for this, that he could feel it as intensely as Clark is feeling it now. 

Neither of them speaks, neither of them _can_ speak. Not with words, at least, because Bruce is sure that Clark is telling him something with every desperate thrust, with every moan that Bruce feels breathed out against his own skin. And Bruce tries to control it, bites his lip to stop it escaping, but his answers fall out anyway, quiet gasps and tiny wordless noises of his own, and it's not just because he's being fucked raw by someone who could destroy the whole goddamn planet if he wanted to. But that's just the point, Bruce thinks, as Clark hits his prostate again and again, as Bruce clenches around Clark's cock and drags out another low moan. 

_See what I'm doing, not what I could do._

Clark lifts one hand away from Bruce's waist, still effortlessly holding him in place, and touches Bruce's face, his neck, his chest. His fingers find Bruce's scars again and he traces over them like braille, like he can read their histories through his fingertips, and something inside Bruce twists when he realises that Clark's own skin isn't as unmarked as he thought it was. There is one scar, just one, faint but visible if you know where to look — and Bruce does know, because he's replayed the moment Clark got it over and over in his head a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times at least.

Bruce tries to look away again but Clark shakes his head, a desperate wordless plea, and Bruce can't refuse him this, not now that he's remembered. Not when Bruce can feel that Clark is almost, _almost_ there, so close his whole body is shaking with it. So Bruce keeps looking, hands moving up from Clark's shoulders and tightening around his neck, and Clark leans forward again until their foreheads meet. They pant hard against each other’s open mouths, breathing each other in, so achingly close the temptation is maddening — but Clark doesn't move any closer, and Bruce can't take something he's no longer sure is being offered. But still they maintain eye contact, all filters gone, and as Clark drives into him again and again, shuddering with the effort of maintaining some sense of control, time loses all meaning until Clark screws his eyes shut, whole body tensing for a drawn-out second before he finally, _finally_ comes. Bruce can feel it when it happens, Clark's cock pulsing inside him, and again he wishes he could be hard for this, that there was some way he could release the tension that's still building even now as he watches Clark lose himself in it, in Bruce's own body. Clark is utterly silent as he comes, biting his lip, the hand on Bruce’s waist squeezing hard enough to bruise, the fingers on Bruce’s chest curling over the racing heartbeat there like he wants to hold it in his hand and never let it go.

They stay like that for a while, Clark still buried deep inside him, Clark’s eyes still shut tight. And for the first time ever Bruce lets himself stare, lets himself run his eyes all over Clark’s face in a way he never has before: at the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, at the sheen of sweat on his skin; at the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark sweep of eyelashes where they rest against his cheek. 

And then Bruce looks down, over his throat, across his chest, and his eyes land on the mark that he can hardly bear to look at, let alone touch. But Clark is still inside him, still wrapped around him, and — Clark had gotten what he’d wanted, Bruce realises, because there’s nothing in between them now, nothing at all. Bruce takes an unsteady breath but he bows his head anyway, pressing his lips against the one and only imperfection that mars Clark’s otherwise flawless skin. For a second or two Clark goes absolutely still, so still he must have stopped breathing, and it’s far too close a reminder of why Clark was scarred in the first place that Bruce’s fingers tighten reflexively around Clark’s neck. He hears Clark’s breath hitch; feels it too, stuttering through his chest, and Bruce presses another kiss to the scar before he opens his mouth and says:

“Stay.” He brushes his lips over the mark again and feels Clark’s heartbeat pound hard against his mouth. “Tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

Bruce closes his eyes. 

“Making promises isn’t wise for people in our line of work.”

Another hard thump of Clark’s heart against his lips, and then another and another.

“That’s an excuse, not an answer.”

Clark’s voice is quiet but utterly resolute and really, Bruce hadn't expected anything less. 

He can feel Clark’s eyes on him, watching, waiting, asking for nothing. Asking for everything. 

“Stay,” Bruce repeats. Clark tenses, waiting for the caveat, the clause. But Bruce is silent, and Clark inhales sharply before he speaks again. 

“All right,” Clark says eventually, one hand tight around Bruce’s waist, the other warm and heavy on Bruce's chest. “Okay.” 

If his voice is a little unsteady, they both pretend to ignore it.

*

Sunlight streams in through the windows, hitting Bruce full in the face. His eyes flicker open but he has to shut them again quickly, the room far brighter than it usually was when he woke up in the morning. It must be late, he thinks. And then the bed shifts beside him, and Bruce remembers — everything, really. 

He turns his head.

Clark is lying next to him, slowly coming awake too. He stretches like a giant cat, arms pulled taut over his head as his back arches up off the bed. Morning light catches the sharp jut of a hipbone, the curve of his bare chest, before Clark lays back again and just soaks it all up, practically glowing with it, warm and gold and — _alive_. 

When he opens his eyes he’s looking right at Bruce, like he knew he was being watched. Like he knew, maybe, what Bruce was thinking. What Bruce was going to say.

“Waking up in a glass box seems to be good for you.”

Clark stares at him for a moment.

“I’m not sure it’s just the box, though.” 

Bruce can think of a dozen different ways to end this before it inevitably gets out of hand, ways to make Clark look at him with something he can handle better than the way Clark is looking at him now. But he's the one who asked Clark to stay, and Clark had done as he was asked, and seeing him now, the barest hint of tension in his body as he lays there on Bruce's bed, watching Bruce with eyes that are still stubbornly unguarded despite the increasingly lengthy silence, Bruce knows there's really only one thing he can do. 

He reaches over and touches Clark’s chest, covers the faint mark there with the palm of his hand. Clark’s heartbeat is strong and steady and if there's anything Bruce might be inclined to count on, surely this would be one of them. 

“Maybe we should find out,” Bruce says, and feels the heart under his hand skip a beat. 

Clark briefly closes his eyes. And then he smiles, just a little, and if Clark doesn’t mention it then maybe Bruce can pretend his own pulse doesn’t pick up at the sight of it. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Clark says. He sits up a little and reaches out too, fingers sweeping over Bruce’s arm and shoulder before coming to rest against the side of his neck, thumb brushing over his stubbled jaw.

“I'm told it's what I do best,” Bruce replies. “Making plans.”

Clark's smile widens. 

“So I’ve heard.” He shuffles closer, slowly, giving Bruce all the time in the world to move away. Bruce stays right where he is. “Do you take suggestions?” Clark asks, gaze lowering to Bruce’s mouth before flicking back up again. 

Bruce doesn’t answer. But when Clark leans down and kisses him, Bruce just pulls him closer and kisses him back. 


End file.
